


Quartonic

by keymasher, sweatbun



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, being really nice to the Aen Seidhe because omfg do they deserve it, lore heavy, remolding canon to meet my own nefarious ends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22416139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keymasher/pseuds/keymasher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatbun/pseuds/sweatbun
Summary: "When the Gate opened and the elves left, they took with them or destroyed all their works of art and left not a single image. We do not know if the Daisy of the Valley was really as beautiful as they say."– Nimue, Lady of the LakeIn the beginning of the 14th century, the last bastion of the Aen Seidhe has fallen, and the second Conjuction has come upon the world. Numbers greatly diminished, The Northern Kingdoms and Nilfgaard calling for their extinction, the elves that remain board their ships and sail for the Ard Gaeth in the Great Sea. What lies on the other side is unknown to them, but they can only hope it treats them better than the world they leave behind.
Relationships: Iorveth (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Vestige/Iorveth
Comments: 29
Kudos: 62





	1. The Spyglass

_Anvil, Gold Coast_

In the cool of the shade, Rif studied the spyglass, running her thumbs along the adorning gold patterns of each piece. It was wonderfully crafted, and she ached to test it out, but its previous owner seemed in no hurry to finish loading his ship, probably so he could continue being an insufferable lecher around her.

"Your break ended nearly half an hour ago, little elf." Bahva's voice made her jolt, but she composed herself quickly before turning to meet her boss.

" _Urada_ ," Rif apologized. "I would've returned sooner, but this freighter is most unpleasant to work with."

Bahva sighed at that, her ears wilting momentarily. "This one noticed. Unfortunately, that oafish Niden cut his day short. Said he was feeling ill. You are the only one on the docks."

_Lovely_ , Rif thought with a frown, especially since she was certain she'd seen Niden casting lines on the northern banks around midday.

"Can't you stick around, keep company?" She was practically begging, a rare occurrence since she loved the docks and the work that came with it. Bahva was stunned at this, a twitch of her whiskers giving her away. She would relent; Rif just needed to push a little harder. "I'll stay late to fill out the logs for you. _Please_."

"Peh. Fine. But only because the sooner we get that poor sailor away from here, the less likely he is to notice his expensive spyglass is missing." _Yffre's tits._ "Aha! Don't gape at Bahva, little elf. Even an infant khajit makes a much better thief than you. Now come, do your job."

At the khajit's motion, Rif rose to follow her, condensing her prize with a satisfying snap.

"Th–that's not true, you know. He didn't notice a thing!"

"Infatuated fools never do. He is too easy a mark. You could've gone for his coin purse if you really wanted." That drew a giggle out of Rif, but Bahva merely shot her a glance. "Be aware, that was not a suggestion. This one does not wish to show up at your grandmother's house with the news you are in jail."

"So little faith in me?"

"Stick to what you are good at, dockhand."

Rif dragged her gaze from the looming masts to her boss, catching the amused twitch of Bahva's tail as she smirked.

—

Indeed, with Bahva around, the freighter captain was less…sleazy, and with the cargo loaded within the hour, Rif could relax and enjoy the weight of the scope in her pocket. Of course, as soon as the ship was nearly out of sight, Bahva slapped a heavy journal in her hands, effectively dousing her enthusiasm to test out her trophy.

Resigned, but still comforted by the sound of the waves, Rif sat herself and the book on a nearby crate, and kept true to her word.

—

When the sun dipped deep enough into the sea and the light became too scarce to continue, Rif closed the log shut.

Come morning, Bahva should be satisfied to see she'd even worked ahead, allocating and labeling spaces for the expected ships in the next few days. Maybe she'd even pay her an extra coin or two.

Rif was a tad fatigued, and especially hungry, but the dying amber light over the water absolutely demanded her new spyglass's attention.

Out in the open, the warmed metal felt good her hand, and she couldn’t suppress an excited laugh as she raised it to her eye.

Needless to say, the craftsmanship did absolute justice to the performance.

She swept her gaze from one end of the port to the other, slowly, absorbing every distant wave, twinkling star, and flying gull. Probably foolishly, she squinted at the last bit of sunlight on the horizon, watching until it sunk entirely, leaving the sky dark and vast.

"Aaaannnriffennnn!" Her name sang out in the night, and she swung around to point the glass at the disturbance. A row of glinting teeth crowded her field of vision, and she shrieked as she recognized the smile of her second favorite person in the world.

"What are you doing here?" Rif sprinted forward to throw herself around the dunmer's neck. "I thought you were still in Deshaan for another fortnight!"

The courier laughed in her ear as she swung Rif off the ground. "Yes well, the Pact needed something hand-delivered to Skywatch, so I decided to plan my route through my favorite port in all of Tamriel."

Rif pulled back slightly. "The Pact? As in Ebonheart? Sonni…this sounds dangerous." The world was troubled, and history books held no reprieves for the heralds of war. No one loved the messenger who brought bad news.

"It's not dangerous, I promise you. The Alliances pass correspondence amongst themselves all the time."

"But they're at war!"

Sonnilah shrugged. "Maybe they just exchange petty notes like schoolchildren. Their letters could just say a big 'fuck you.' Either way, I get paid."

Unease made Rif shake her head, but an incredulous laugh still escaped her. "You're mad. Madder than Sheogorath, for you never take anything seriously."

Sonni sighed and tapped her on the nose. "You are only afraid because you don't see the world out there as I do. This 'war' is nonsense, buffoonery. If you only knew the pompous drivel and bureaucracy that fuels the rumors. You'd care a lot less, then."

Rif opened her mouth to object, but just as quickly shut it, for she realized she really did not know enough to support an argument. As much as she liked to claim the world came to _her_ on these docks, she was but another of Anvil's indoctrinated. Like the rest of the citizens, she did not speak of the Dark Brotherhood lurking outside the city, nor of the droves of Dominion Marines that trotted through the streets some nights on their way to the Heartlands, and she pointedly ignored the only remaining trace of Count Ephrem's futile assaults against Kvatch—which was that the guard count had never recovered. The Golden Coast shined brightly as ever; the sea breeze sang, the pale sands gleamed, and life was a delightful vacation. Praised be Dibella.

"Then tell me," she finally said. "Since I do not know, tell me."

Her friend took a step back to blink warily at her. "Come now, Rif. I haven't seen you since winter and you want to talk politics? How about instead, you show me thing shiny thing you've been waving around."

Rif felt her temper flare mildly at the misdirection. Sonnilah was her closest friend whom she greatly adored, but that did not mean her flaws were overlooked. She had Indoril blood, and all the pride and cunning that came with it. Was it that pride and cunning now, that chose to keep Rif in the dark? Then Sonni smiled loosely and Rif wavered; indeed it had been months since they'd spoken face to face, and she did not want to start the night with anger.

"Fine, but we'll continue this later."

"Fine," the dunmer echoed, winking one of those inky-black eyes.

Rif rolled her eyes. "You're damned lucky I'm way too excited about this." She raised the spyglass to eye level, twisting and turning it to display how beautifully it reflected the warm glow of the city. Sonni was just as awestruck as she was, and the two huddled close to study it reverently. The tale of its acquisition earned Rif an approving laugh, and she felt her spirits lift ever slightly.

"Let me try it out?" Sonni asked.

"Of course!" Rif eagerly led her friend back to the docks, pointing out the faintest of stars for her to look at. They chatted excitedly about the twin Black moons, a rare event that was enhanced by the seeing glass. With the warm breeze and lull of the low tide—as well as Sonni's soothing narration of each and every small event she saw—Rif felt the remains of her earlier unease drain away.

"Rif…you expecting any ships tonight?" Sonni suddenly asked, and all the nerves and dread flooded back to sit heavily in Rif's gut.

"W-what? The logs are closed," she stated definitively.

"And what is a little ledger to a great ship?"

"This port is very strict, and we don't keep the dockworkers into the night. Everyone knows this. The ships come as scheduled or stay out of the shallows until dawn." _Unless they carry soldiers_ , she reminded herself, but Bahva would not have left her alone tonight if that were the case. _Right?_

"I think such common knowledge is lacking in this one then. Here, have a look."

Rif took the scope hesitantly and directed it where Sonni pointed. Sure enough, less than a kilometer out, nearly obscured in the dark, sat a faint silhouette of a vessel. A large one. She strained to see the crest on its sails, but it was still too far away.

"Maybe...maybe it'll stop," she hoped. "It's still out deep enough."

"And if it doesn't?"

The question was a bit unnerving. Rif had worked the seaport since she was a child, loving the ocean and the boats and the visitors. She was confident in her abilities, just as confident as Bahva was to let her handle a docked vessel on her own. This was different though. A large ship in the dark of the night. Rif pulled up the spyglass again to check the ship's progress. In such a short time, it loomed closer, sails now visible and detailed. They were moving quickly then, and yet the crest was unrecognizable. _Shit._

"Sonni…you see more of the world than I do. Do you recognize that coat of arms?"

After a pregnant pause, Sonni shook her head. "Not any of the Alliances or countries. Not anything I've ever seen, and I've read the records, viewed the Akaviri clan crests. This is unknown to me." _Shit, shit, shit._ Her closest friend in the world turned to her, wide eyed, and whispered, "What are you going to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this with a friend in hopes of achieving regular updates. Not sure exactly how frequent atm while we try to settle it into our schedules, but for now we'll aim for biweekly.  
> Thanks for reading c:


	2. The Moons

> _Abecean Sea_

"How long do you suppose until that gets old?"

"Hm?" Iorveth glanced back questioningly, despite knowing the subject of her query. There wasn't much else to look at; migrating across space and time into another world was surprisingly anticlimactic. They'd been sailing for a whole nine days and nights now, and had yet to see anything but sea in every direction. Not even a flying creature or raincloud to break the monotony.

Thus, the focus of his gaze had little else to fall on but the unfamiliar sky, and the _two_ moons that dominated it, even obscured in shadow as they were. A quick glance around confirmed he was not the only one. The remaining crew that hadn't turned below deck for the night lingered, transfixed by the sight in the heavens.

"Depends on how it stands against any other surprises this world presents us," he finally responded.

Toruviel nodded, eyes casting downwards. "That's fair." She seemed uneasy, so he remained quiet for her to continue.

"I don’t know what I expected, or what I continue to expect. Almost anything would be better than what we left behind…but at the moment I'm torn between relief and fear, and the lack of anything, so far has not eased my turmoil."

The moons loomed ahead of her, as if to emphasize the apprehension she projected. Iorveth squinted at the single star that lay between them, the guide they now followed, wherever it may lead, and attempted to smother his own anxiety.

"Don't be too dispirited. It could be weeks before we encounter anything. Oceans are large, or did you forget?"

She scoffed at his side. "Don't tease now Iorveth." The chiding was without teeth however, and the roll of her eyes drew a smirk from him. "Nietha, you choose the worst times to reveal what little humor you possess."

"Just trying to ease my own nerves. _Yes_ , I'm worried as well, don't look at me like that." With a sigh, Iorveth relented, unloosing his frustrations. "The ship from Cidaris is running low on supplies, our casted nets have been empty, and Aimon's been ranting all afternoon. Coming up with vivid descriptions of the colossal marine creatures he imagines might attack us any day." At times, when the wind was slow and the sun beat down on the deck, forcing everyone into a lull beneath some shade, Iorveth feared this world was nothing but empty blue, and this journey was for naught. He decided it best not to voice that much when he saw the worry in Toruviel's face though.

After a long pause, she spoke up, albeit shakily. "That Aimon's becoming a menace, isn't he?"

"He always was one. Nearly convinced one of the starving Dol Blathanna camps to _not_ come with us."

"Yet he is commandeering our ship."

"Not my idea. Francesca likes him. Besides, we didn't have many options. We were in a hurry."

"Enid an Gleanna," she corrected him. "You can't hold a grudge forever, Iorveth. We're on our own out here, and she's one of us. We must not be divided."

"I'm not holding a grudge, but nor am I forgetful. I am loyal to her as far as my loyalty reaches for any of my kin." Toruviel shrugged, eyes expressing her unbelief. "And you can't expect me to be more sympathetic now that she is without magic. The Scoia'tael managed just fine without magic for decades."

"Careful fox, you sound bitter. And you can't deny magic might've helped us find land sooner."

At this point, Iorveth was beginning to suspect this was the topic Toruviel sought him out to discuss, likely prompted by his reluctance to join the other former Squirrels into falling into line with Francesca's fantasy for the future.

For probably the fourth time that day, he regretted throwing his lot in with the _Krolowa_. Keeping an eye on Francesca was not worth the proselytizing, especially not from the mouths of his friends.

"She is no longer your queen, Tor. We put aside our titles to reach this world, agreed to cooperation on equal terms. You don't need to continue this farce."

"Farce? Queen or not, she earned my loyalty. Are you blind to the fact she's been right beside us, elbows-deep in sweat and blood for the sake of this journey?"

"No less blind than those of you thinking her idling in the sick tent was 'sweat and blood.' Not while we denied ourselves rations for the sake of the young, rode our horses dead across Temeria to gather the exiled, and chafed our hands raw to build her boats!" He was aware he was yelling, but could hardly bring himself to care.

"Heavens, Iorveth. How can you be so willfully stubborn? This animosity is always going to be about the Vrihedd execution for you. You live still, just let it go!"

He hated that she'd brought that up, hated the phantom pain that suddenly seared to life where his eye used to be, but most of all, hated that the memories just would not stay buried like he wanted them to. Iorveth's mouth tasted sour and he spat over the side of the ship.

"I lost my brothers at Dillingen—"

"We all did. Enid did the best she could in her position, outnumbered and pressed against the wall by Northern Kingdoms _and_ Nilfgaard. Thirty-two Scoia'tael officers were a small price to play for our last forty years on the Continent. It was precious time bought. Time to recover, to reconcile, to rebuild."

"A superficial peace," he denounced it. One he hadn't even been able to appreciate in his exile.

"Without it, the elves would not have been prepared for the Gate's opening. You know that much."

Iorveth shook his head, frankly just sick of this argument, one they'd had too many times, not once reaching a resolution. He did not trust Francesca, it was simple as that. She was a cowardly leader, using underhanded tactics for her own gain. When that power was lost and she was at the mercy of the humans she so foolishly trusted, it had been him and his brethren who united the Continent's elves and brought them through the Gate. Now that the bloodshed was behind them, now that they were free of the humans who threatened their existence, _now_ she wanted to lead?

He continued to brood, not even noticing that Toruviel had long given up and returned below deck. It was only until a shout pierced the still of the night that Iorveth snapped out of his melancholy.

Aimon was leaping wildly at the helm, shouting his name until he noticed Iorveth's attention.

" _Land!_ The spotter's seen a lighthouse!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Nietha: derived from an old Norwegian goddess of spring and fertility, Rana Niejta. The Aen Seidhe wiki only mentions a goddess was worshipped by the early elves, not her name. So I improvised.
> 
> These preliminary chapters are gonna be bit short, so sorry if y'all hate that kinda thing. They'll lengthen as we get into the meat and potatoes lol.
> 
> Also, another apology to any Francesca Findabair lovers: I'm not one of them :p


	3. The Harbor

> _Anvil_

An eternity stretched onward as the ship approached, the air growing tense and sticky the closer it drew. Every passing minute unveiled the illusion distance had created, and before long, the once nonthreatening blemish in the fog emerged a menacing vessel. It was large, about the size of a Dominion warship, yet foreign in design. Not as sharp and utilitarian as a Nordic ship, but also lacking the embellishments expected of elven design. Its shape and many sails suggested it was built for speed and maneuverability, rather than war. However, this was not a reassurance; the type was preferred by pirates.

Rif was counting the lowering sails when her lungs began to burn.

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and quickly devolved to deep gulps and gasps as she relieved her aching chest.

At her side, Sonni eyed her curiously, and likely would have teased if not for the current circumstances. She was a compulsive jester, hardly able to resist making droll of the most grave situations, and one of the few people that did not chide her for not taking life seriously enough. Sonnilah was her idol, her carefree living an example of what Rif aspired to one day. She often turned to her when she was struggling, relied on her nonchalance to ground her fears and worries.

Yet in this moment, Rif found only a mirror of anxiety in the dunmer's eyes.

How she wished the ship had aimed just a few degrees more North and landed amongst empty and welcoming battle ruins.

Behind her, Anvil slept, oblivious to her crisis. Although was it really hers alone, if it turned out to affect the goodwill of the populace? Gods be damned, she couldn't stand here frozen like a coward who'd forgotten how to do the only job she'd ever had. Rif steeled herself and turned to Sonni.

"Go wake Bahva. Her house is among the first ring outside the walls, by the stables. Hers is the only one with chipped red paint on the door."

Sonni stared down at her for a few long moments before nodding. "Alright. Should I send any guards your way?"

"If you can, yes. And tell them to be subtle."

"Alright. Don't do anything rash." Her friend gripped her forearms in farewell and then took off into a courier's sprint, casting back a meaningful glance before she disappeared through the city walls.

Alone in the night, Rif leapt into action. Using a nearby torch, she lit the braziers framing the largest landing, the only one that could possibly accommodate a vessel of that size. She hauled a thick coil of mooring rope over to the dock, in case the ship did not provide one, and tucked the dull shearing knife she used to open crates into her belt at her back. The docks were nearly full tonight, and Rif briefly considered racing up and down the banks, yelling to wake any stragglers who hadn’t abandoned their ships for the comforts of an inn bed.

Should she?

No need to need to raise alarm if nothing had yet happened, right?

Facing the ship now entering the harbor, she stood and waited. The neighboring castle cast a long shadow onto the ship as it glided closer, cloaking it in ominous darkness. With the sails lowered, the empty masts stood tall and dark; her eyes could look nowhere else.

Rif struggled to keep the rise and fall of her chest even, praying for the hundredth time in the last few minutes that Sonni and Bahva would appear, hopefully with a considerable force of city guards. She was beginning to regret staying so late tonight. Past sundown, the empty docks were short of security as it was, the war pulling a good portion of the guard into the heart of Cyrodiil. The city gates and chapel were a higher priority in the dead of night.

Yet no one could blame her for not considering the risks, at least she hoped. Anvil was a city of zealots, castaways, and Brotherhood assassins hiding in plain sight. Somehow, this odd clash nurtured a low rate of crime, the exceptions being a rare murder that all but the Chanters turned a blind eye to, since one of them was oft the victim. The passing traders and castaways just wanted to keep to themselves, and the Brotherhood was not stupid enough to stir trouble over petty crimes, so the citizens of Anvil hardly feared for their purses. Rif's grandmother often criticized them, and her, for their foolish illusion of safety, what with a war so close to their doorstep, but it was difficult to live cautiously when no one around had the same inclination.

Nana would be delighted to know she was entirely reformed now.

The boat was close enough that she could make out a few silhouetted figures standing by the edge. A few had the telltale shapes of bows peeking out from their shoulders, but none of the weapons were drawn.

Rif tried to take this as a kind of comfort. Invaders would not plant themselves in plain view of an arrow without being ready to retaliate, would they? She felt incredibly small and alone in this moment, resigned to the fact that backup would not come in time. Keeping composure was a struggle, but she told herself to endure through it, since no doubt they could see her from the ship by now.

Scraping together the last remains of her courage, Rif raised her arm to wave at the obscured voyagers, and to her great surprise, a few waved back.

The tension in her shoulders loosened, allowing her a couple of alleviating deep breaths.

A voice rang out just as the grand ship slowed to stop a few meters from the docks. It was a woman's voice, melodious yet unintelligible, a language Rif had never heard, and after a great deal of hesitation, Rif called out her lack of understanding.

In the quiet shelter of the harbor, the buzz of their interspersed murmurs echoed loudly, carrying agitated whispers to her ears.

She waited patiently for their chatter to pass, and was rewarded swiftly.

"May we dock?"

So they spoke Cyrodiilic. How that was even possible made her head spin, so she pressed the sudden flood of questions out of mind.

"Yes. Do you have a mooring line, or should I toss one up?"

The response was a startling smack as the end of a rope hit the dock at her feet, accompanied by an urgent apology that Rif brushed off with a shaky wave. She secured the rope tightly to a post, motioned the all clear, and watched as the boat slid slowly into place in front of her.

The deck still stood several feet over her head, and without the help of her workmates, she was not strong enough to haul a boarding plank up to greet it.

Above, a lone head hung over the side of the ship, waiting. Its long hair flowed freely down, delicate female features visible in the warm light of the braziers. A glint of teeth revealed a smile.

Rif knew it would be naïve, stupid even, to board without backup, without a single droplet of knowledge of these strangers' intentions or where they came from, but that face was inviting, and her curiosity so strong, all previous reservations fled her. With no one around to dissuade her; the decision was easily made.

The mooring line was taut enough that Rif could pull herself onto it with practiced effort, and after scaling its length in mere seconds, a pair of hands helped her the last few inches onboard.

The sight that awaited her was not one she could have ever imagined herself.

They were clustered in a half ring around her, a long look around confirming no one lurked out of reach. Nine in total, they donned worn garments and mismatched armor, but beautifully cared for scabbards and bows at their hips and backs. The dissemblance was further emphasized by their haggard expressions, like sailors who'd been at sea for months, yet they stood tall and proud. Their features were pale and elegant, like those of the Breton, but their ears ended in the unmistakable points of a mer.

Half-elves?

"We are pure-blooded, I assure you," an offended voice drew her attention nearby, where a one-eyed elf scowled at her.

"I'm so sorry," Rif apologized, unaware she had made her observation aloud. "You just don't look like any elves I've ever seen."

"Nor do you." The woman who had first called to her spoke; Rif recognized her voice. She had black hair and eyes, a harsh contrast against her moon-pale skin, but the fact did not detract from her beauty. "We are elves of another world, here as refugees."

"A—another world?" she barely whispered.

The beautiful elf's expression turned strangely sympathetic, lips pouting as if she were let down a child with some terrible news.

"I don't know how to explain the intricacies of our journey, but yes, we come from another world." When Rif didn't speak, mostly from shock, the woman took it as cue to continue. "My name is Toruviel aep Sihiel. We are the last of the Aen Seidhe of Ziemia, and we bring no ill intent. In the world we left behind, our people were hunted to near extinction, until a interdimensional event allowed us a way to start anew. We would just ask the chance to leave peacefully, to rebuild what we have lost."

The rest of the group remained still; no one spoke up or reached for their weapons, just quietly stared. Rif wouldn't have tolerated it if she weren't shamelessly reciprocating their scrutiny.

"How many of you are there?"

"On this ship? About forty. There are three other ships with similar numbers waiting in the open sea. We departed with seven ships, but only four made it through the Gate." So few for a vessel so large? They must be carrying a lot of cargo.

Rif spared a glance behind her, to where the archway that let into Anvil stood, still void of life. She was on her own.

"I…I'm just a dockhand. I can take a few of you to the castle, to meet with the Prefect. He is known to be reasonable. Maybe you can arrange some exchange for aid and supplies, provided you are patient through his…paranoia."

The small gathering before her seemed to all exhale a sigh of relief. Toruviel stepped forward to place a hand on her shoulder. "That would be an immeasurable kindness. We are grateful." Her smile was breathtaking; Rif could only offer a wobbly nod in return. "Would it be too imposing to approach the castle at this hour?"

The fort in question lay well-lit across the water, as it always was. Rif had been there on several occasions, usually on an errand similar to the one she offered to the refugees now. Those had been during the day, though.

"Probably," Rif admitted. "But I think your presence would be less tolerable if it were to be discovered by the early shift in a few hours. You—we should go as soon as possible."

Toruviel selected three elves to join her, dismissing the others in a foreign language. She introduced each of them, but the names went in one ear and out the other as Rif struggled to remain unintimidated. All save for one had the builds of warriors, lithe and strong, and all towered at least a head over her. The only one who's name Rif could recall at the moment was Nurov, if only for his unusual white hair. The rest would have to do with the silly names she assigned them in her head.

A ladder of rope and wood was tossed over the side, and the elves allowed her to climb down first, a show of good faith. Rif was not entirely at ease, not even when her feet were planted once more on the solid stone banks of the harbor, but most of her fear was dissipated. Toruviel especially, seemed sincere, and that they all left their weapons on board was not missed by Rif; she was certain it would not be missed by the Prefect either.

The walk to the city walls should have been short-lived, but their little pack kept slowing to ask questions, and to answer hers. Sandals, the tallest and most scholarly-looking of the group, explained in the simplest terms, the strange cataclysm that permitted their exodus: an alignment of realities that opened large gates to unknown worlds. He called it the Conjunction of Spheres, and the others nodded simply along, as if he'd just merely claimed the sky was blue. Rif took this staggering knowledge as calmly as she could and in return, gave to them the general geographical lay of Tamriel, elaborating lightly on the various people that inhabited it. They reacted with wonder to the diverse existence of mer and beast-folk, and poorly hid their distaste at the races of men, stirring pity in her chest.

As much as she wanted to pry, to delve into whatever it was that forced them to flee their home across dimensions, she imagined having her race reduced to a mere few hundred could only be accomplished through horrific, traumatic means. She nearly did open her mouth to ask, but her Imperial etiquette, so deeply-rooted, held her back. Well, that and a sudden realization that these elves had some of the worst timing she'd ever heard of.

"I regret to tell you this given your circumstances, but you've come to Tamriel during a rather dark time," Rif began, instantly uneasy when Toruviel fixed attentive eyes on her. The Soulburst, the daedra, the vanished emperor…just how much should she tell them, these refugees? She did not wish to crush their hopes after they had come so far. "We are at war. Anvil remains neutral, mainly due to religious prominence, but we've still had our own problems. The city is very weakened, having only recently driven off attacked from a city in the east. I can only hope whatever agreements you come to with the Prefect do not drag you into conflict."

The elves exchanged perturbed expressions before Rif hastily added, "It is not a war among races, I promise you."

It was Eyepatch that surprised her with a response; he had not spoken a word since his initial remark on the ship. "Tell us the whole truth. Our people will not be used nor persecuted, not ever again."

Rif shrank back at the rigor of his tone, but stuttered a reply nonetheless. "Th-this war…i-it is The war is over power, not hatred..." Toruviel yanked the imposing elf back, seeing Rif so startled, but despite an uttered an apology on his behalf, Eyepatch continued to glower. Determined to ease the tension, Rif picked her next words carefully. "Three alliances, each forged of three Tamrielic countries. The races that inhabit them are generally loyal to their banners, but it is not unknown for some to defect and join other causes. Every faction seeks control of the Imperial City and its Ruby Throne. The only animosity between races is the general stigmatizing you'd expect from uninformed groups of people."

The elves looked predictably skeptical. Even the friendly Toruviel appeared to struggle to accept Rif's explanation, but whatever debates may have arisen from their doubt was inhibited by the shouts coming down the road.

Awareness doused Rif like ice-cold water; something was off. The party had already passed through the city gates, distracted and oblivious to the glaring omen of too-quiet streets and empty guard posts

The urgent echoes finally gained clarity: a familiar voice strained with exertion.

Sonnilah?

"Pirates! They're invading the city!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The takeover of Anvil by pirates is entirely canon, which I find hilarious.
> 
> Also, the planet the Continent sits on is never named? So we just made one up. "Ziemia" is Polish for earth. c:


	4. The Red Sails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made some changes to previous chapters, mostly grammar and syntax stuff that doesn’t affect the plot in any way. I'm sorry this update took /so/ long! Finals-hell-week just wrapped up, so I hope to update more frequently. Thank you for your comments and kudos!

> Anvil

As much as he would like to blame the little fool of an elf for this predicament, he could not.

Iorveth should have noticed something was amiss far before the shouting began.

He'd taken the rear guard, intent on memorizing every building and every road, yet he'd walked obliviously beneath the empty, unwatched gate, foolishly entranced by the confounding words from a little elf's mouth. Any township with a semblance of structure had a sentry, especially in the dead of night. To miss such a glaring detail…Iorveth would've expected it of a green-faced Squirrel, but never from himself. Now they were divided, Toruviel barely escaping with an unconscious Vesham slumped on her shoulder.

A shove wrenched him out of his melancholy, and he turned to glare at the assailant: a greasy-haired human in red garb.

Iorveth should have been surprised. A new world, brimming with possibilities only limited by the extents of their own imaginations; who would dare to expect the worst? Maybe _he_ had, somewhere in the deepest confines of his mind where he still allowed fear any reign, because here they were: humans, like weeds in a field, countless and suffocating.

Individually however, they were limp and weak, like this offending pirate, skinny enough that a breeze might knock him over. Nor him or his nudging were threatening in the slightest, but the staff he gripped tightly, topped with a stone that glowed and crackled, was. He'd begun to reach towards his feet, where a dagger was tucked into each boot, the same fittings as the rest of their party, but Toruviel, ever the diplomat, had stopped him with a shake her head. Iorveth had felt the heat of its lightning singe past his head, seen another incapacitate Vesham with a single blast of unnatural frost. Iorveth had no intention of being dragged, unconscious or dying, to wherever the hell they were headed, so he followed the direction of the shove dutifully.

The little elf caught his eye as they rounded another corner, wearing an expression that reminded him of frightened prey. It was discordant with her collage of scanty leather wrappings, unruly braids, and golden beastly eyes. On the docks, against mildew and weathered wood, she had looked out of place; even more so here, amongst limestone streets. Just based off her appearance, Iorveth might have thought her useful in a fight, if only he had not spied her fumbling with a rusty blade behind her back long before their ship touched harbor.

 _She is as tame as a housecat._ A naïve little housecat that boarded a strange vessel while sea wolves pillaged her city.

How she had been the one to pull him clear of a staff's destructive blast, to cleverly surrender and allow his companions an inconspicuous escape, was quite beyond him.

They continued to be steered through the city, occasionally joined by other small groups of herded civilians. Humans mostly, Iorveth noticed.

Eventually, the pirates led them, and seemingly the rest of the city, onto a wide street shadowed by grandiose building Iorveth could only assume was the chapel. Light poured from many inlaid sheets of stained glass, and its spires gleamed as if they were routinely polished. _Impressive for humans, maybe,_ he thought. Across from the temple stood an ivy-covered peristyle, and to his left, a tall stone archway that reminded him of Novigrad's gates, still beyond that, preceded by a paved bridge, a palace that stretched high enough to fade into a glowing fog.

Well, they had made it, one way or another. Though he didn't think they'd be sitting for tea with the Prefect any time soon.

Caught distracted _again_ , Iorveth was pushed unceremoniously towards the sparser eye of the crowd. He stumbled into the open, and in the brief moment it took to catch his balance, the pirate prick disappeared, melting into the mass along with the rest of his group. Nurov and the little elf were nowhere to be seen. Iorveth slowly spun around, scanning the mass for a familiar face to emerge from the throng. He called Nurov's name once, but was drowned out by the clamorous din, met only by an overwhelming sense of…smallness.

For the first time since the Gate, Iorveth felt displaced. Not the strange seas, not the unknown stars above them, not even the alien magic he now feared…not one of these discoveries had made him feel truly unsettled.

Rif's improvised lessons on gods and beast-folk had played like fairytales, but had not seemed impossible. Monsters and specters once confined to nightmares had found a way to thrive on the Continent after all.

He had not known then, how shattering that diversity would be to witness.

Pirates continued to arrive with clusters of… _beings_. Reptilians bearing formidable spikes and brightly colored scales hissing obscenities at their captors. Hulking orcs with protruding tusks and fierce braids pushing fruitlessly against the blockade. Lions, panthers, tigers with bright eyes and precious metals adorning their ears, pacing anxiously on two legs like men. And between them all, the fill between the cracks, _humans_. Fretting over the wounded, mourning their lost sleep, worrying over their torn nightgowns as if the greatest strangeness of all was not the congeniality between them and their neighbors.

This felt wrong, near sickening, some hidden utopia he was never supposed to witness. After Vergen fell despite his best efforts, the loss had felt a killing blow, the final stake through the heart of Saskia's dream. They had sought the impossible to find it was truly impossible. Yet, here he was, proven wrong. A sickening regret gripped his insides; if he'd only tried harder, pushed further...

A clap on his shoulder jarred him out of any further bewilderment.

"I managed a count of the pirate brutes." Nurov _._ "Two dozen here, at least double on the way back. Rifling through every bush, barrel, and crate like savages."

Iorveth felt something within him shift back into place when he turned to face his brother; a grounding tether pulled taut. It took him a long moment, but he found his voice again. "This…this is no cavalier ransacking. Their numbers are too great, ordnance too strong. It must have been planned, likely a coup of sorts."

"What kind of pirate wants to govern?"

 _Good question_. The pirates of the Great Sea only cared for chaos and heavy pockets. Were the brigands of this world somehow different?

"I suppose it makes sense," Nurov admitted when Iorveth didn’t answer. "They haven't used lethal force. No one to rule if everyone is dead."

That was not a security, they both knew. The unspoken truth, the maxim that blew through the ears of every elf since the day they were born, _never take the humans at face value, never let them catch you with your guard down._ Together, they scanned their surroundings, scoped the resistance, the outlets. Pairs of pirates barred the way to every road, path, and alleyway, while still others patrolled the perimeter of the crowd, swords and staffs drawn in threat to any insurgents. Iorveth certainly prided himself in his close combat expertise—he knew Nurov did too—but their combined four daggers and honed reflexes against a small army with foreign magic? It was not even close to fair play.

"Ahh, damn it all!" Nurov growled. "We wouldn’t even be in this mess if that infernal grey elf hadn't led them right to us!"

As if summoned by his brother's accusations, the grey elf's friend rushed in out of nowhere, bristled like a riled snake.

"It wasn't intentional! Sonni was trying to warn us!"

"Warn us? More like use us as diversion. Notice she's conveniently missing?"

"She helped _your_ friends escape!"

"That's right…a show to win our trust then, before she called the pirates to our fucking ship!"

"Sonni would _never_ ," Rif hissed as she stepped up to him. "Learn to be grateful, _s'wit_."

" _What_ did you just call me?!" Nurov pushed into her space, brows knit and teeth bared. To her credit, Rif hardly flinched, rather pointed her chin and spat something in another language.

 _The tame little cat shows she can be feral._ Perhaps at another time, with less of an audience, Iorveth would have allowed this to play out, but civilians nearby were already starting to clear a space in anticipation of a brawl. The last thing they needed was attention.

"Stand down, Nurov. The _Krolowa_ can defend itself, and so can Toruviel for that matter." It was an assurance Iorveth voiced for himself as much as his brother, but his determination must have shown through, for Nurov stepped back without voiced complaint.

"Girl, can you fight?"

"No, but—"

"Then stay out of our way," Nurov cut her short.

"Why are you so rude?" The savagery from before was all but dissipated; now she _pleaded_. "I want to help! I _can_ help. We…we uhh…we can use the Outlaw tunnels!" Her eyes dropped to the ground then, frantically searching for something beneath their feet. Before Iorveth could ask about it, the elf's attention was stolen by the call of her name.

"Rif? Oh, thank the gods you are well!" A tall woman, skin browned like a Zerrikanian, swept the elf into an tight embrace that ended with a kiss to her mouth. "When Markaa cried of pirates, the docks were my first concern." The woman wailed then, crushing a surprised little elf to her chest. "But then she stumbled in the gardens, with the brutes on our tails! I have not seen her since."

"Be calm, Khadida. She must here by now. I'll help you find her."

The woman had barely a chance to weep her thanks when Nurov stepped in and yanked Rif away by an arm. "Not so fast little elf. You got us into this mess, and you will help us, and us alone, get _out_ of it." She turned her wide eyes to Iorveth, but he shook his head, unsure what she could possibly expect of him. Did she think he'd oppose his brother when he only spoke with sense?

"An'rifen?" The human woman fidgeted, anxiously eyeing the arm Nurov still held in his grip, a grip that tightened ever slightly in unmistakable warning: _deal with this_.

"I–I'm sorry, _sirin_ , but I promised them my help before this. M–Markaa is surely safe in the crowd. Find her, and I will meet up with you later."

Iorveth had known this elf all but a few hours, not nearly enough to sort between her lies and her truths, but then, the words sounded hollow. They were sufficient for the woman however, who nodded and turned back into the crowd with a last glance over her shoulder.

"Tell me more about the tunnels," Iorveth said once the woman was out of sight.

"Sewage channels," Rif amended with a sheepish look. "They're sealed off to all but the ocean, but an…organization of sorts is known to use them. They have a hideout beneath the city. Beneath every city, actually. Thieves and amoral mercenaries mostly, though there are rumors the Dark Brotherhood holes up with them too."

"Sewer thugs?" Nurov hissed. "Is this a joke?"

"How do we get there?" Iorveth asked, Nurov's quip ignored. He was young, never having the _pleasure_ of sneaking into cities through unconventional means.

"I've never been, but I imagine any drainage hole should serve as entry. We just have to find one."

"And without arousing suspicion." Suddenly, the surrounding crowd felt a lot less like a cover, and a lot more like a liability.

Nurov was just beside himself. "What an absolutely riveting task…should we start crawling now?"

—

Toruviel compulsively pressed her fingers to her brother's pulse again, resulting in an assurance as weak as his heartbeat.

The grey elf peered around the edge of the stone house that obscured them, and after a few agonizingly long seconds, turned back to shake her head solemnly. The pirates still swarmed the streets, searching for their lost fugitives.

As bleak as the situation may seem, Toruviel was glad to not be alone. She was surprised that yet another complete stranger had helped them with no questions at all. If not for this sudden violent turn of events, she might have begun to think the people of this world were more heart than reason.

In accordance with her theory, the first words out of the grey elf's mouth, as they caught their breaths behind a sodden stack of crates, had been the venerating, "Your skin is like moonlight." Now, those black-in-black eyes flit between Vesham's lifeless form and the grim set of Toruviel's lips—she did not know _how_ she could tell where the elf directed her opaque stare, she just _did_ —and had the sense to be comforting.

"I've shock stuns before. He'll recover in time, and as for the burns…if–nay, _when_ we find your friends, Rif can heal them."

"Heal? How would that work?" Toruviel whispered back.

"It would work very well, I hope." The grey elf flashed her a grin before turning sheepish. "Sorry, I shouldn’t joke right now, I know. Though to tell you the truth, I cannot give you an answer. Restoration magic is not among my talents. To my eyes, it just happens…like magic. You don’t have magic where you come from?"

Toruviel's heart clenched a little. "We did. But our magic was the price we paid to get here." _Oh we paid a lot more than that, little sister_ , Vesham's bitter voice seemed to echo from his still face.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the grey elf said, sounding sincere. "This world is full of strange powers, so much we don't understand. But without a doubt, magic flows through all things, and you are here now. Maybe not all hope is lost."

"Thank you, kind one."

That cheeky grin made a reappearance, and Toruviel could not help but feel a little hopeful, emboldened even.

Her legs were near numb from crouching, and the scuffle of heavy feet was growing ever closer. This was _not_ the time for inaction. This was _not_ the time for fear. If her brothers were lost, she would lead them to refuge. If her brothers were imprisoned, she would break their shackles. If her brothers…lay dead, she would bring their bodies to be mourned by the People.

Toruviel gently lowered Vesham to the ground, and from his boots, retrieved his pair of hidden blades, adding them to her own. He must be taken back to safety before all, back to their ship in the harbor. A breath in, a breath out, she soothed her clamoring heart.

"Kind one, I will take this risk," she began. Her voice did not tremble. "Against magic, my people are unprepared, but as long as our archers are atop our ship, we have the advantage. I left them a signal. If I can just get close enough for them to hear it, we'll be defended."

"You're sure about this?"

"More than anything."

Once again, the grey elf surprised her. "Then so am I. We are not _completely_ powerless against magic. I am no studied mage, but fire is in my blood," she said, and then her left arm _ignited_ , a cloak of fire that licked harmlessly at her grey skin from elbow to fingertip. "I will do all I can to help," she promised.

There would be time for awe and gratitude later; for now, they stood, their unconscious companion balanced between their shoulders. A breath in, a breath out. _Eternal one, guide my blade straight,_ Toruviel prayed. _And forgive me…for spilling the Hill Folk's first blood._

They burst out into the open, half steel, half flame.

—

A dead end, again.

Iorveth reached out to press his fingertips to the wall. It was soft for the stone it appeared to be, leaving a thick chalky residue on the tips of his gloves. If outlaws truly made these sewers their home, the wall was likely an unsanctioned addition, meant to stall and confuse.

Forced to double back and take the first turn, they continued along the pitch black, shoulders pressed to the damp wall, always an arm's length of each other. It was quiet; not even the sounds of the chaos above permeated the stone that enclosed them. Only their unsteady breathing and squelching footsteps kept their senses from drifting in the darkness.

Iorveth briefly regretted that he'd not had the foresight to bring even a simple pack of matches, but rationality reminded him that most city ventures did not require fire-starters. Most. This was one of the unlucky ones.

Their descent into the tunnels, at least, had been simple. All it had taken was Nurov's fist in a patrol's eye—much to his delight—and then crowd became a mob and slipping into a hole in the ground was a cakewalk.

At last, some meager light slipped through a the gaps of street gutter, illuminating the one-way bend before them. Rif tried to deduce their location from what could be seen of the world above, and after a moment, sighed in relief.

"There's Arkay's shrine. We're going north now, about to pass the edge of the graveyard."

"North?" asked Nurov. "We should be going south, toward the sea."

"We _just came_ from the south, and there were _no_ outlets."

"Well that's just poor civil planning."

"That poor civil planning saved your ungrateful a—" The little elf stopped abruptly, and Iorveth swore he saw her pointed ears twitch like a hare's. "Do you hear that?"

There was nothing at first, only a far-off drip of moisture as they held their breaths. And then he heard it: a composition of foul squeals and the scrapes of claws against stone, echoing off the walls en masse to create a thundering clamor.

"What dwells in these tunnels, little elf?"

She'd barely started to choke out a word when the first creature bolted past.

It was a rat, larger than he'd ever seen, red-eyed and oily-furred with a thick, long tail. More giant rats followed, leaping and flowing over each other in a repulsive torrent. They flattened themselves against the walls in hopes of waiting out their stampede, but before long, some began to take notice.

Iorveth had his daggers drawn when the first one attacked. A shrill screech and the splatter of blood was the only indication his blade had struck true, and after that, they just kept coming.

"Keep moving!" he bellowed over the noise. He pressed forward into the dark, pushing at Nurov ahead, all while hacking and stabbing against claws and teeth. The rats tore at his leathers and clothes until they began to pierce skin, and still, he fought. The rush could not have lasted more than a minute or two, but aided by the dark and the pain and the echoes, felt like it stretched for an eternity. Finally, the horde thinned, just as they reached a small chamber lit dimly by a single luminescent fungus. They collapsed tiredly onto the floor, despite the foul water that shallowly covered it.

" _What_ …the fuck… _were those_?" Nurov panted.

"Skeevers," Rif's pained voice sounded from somewhere on his right.

"I pray whatever chased them through here is fat and slow and _very_ far away."

"Their natural predators are crocodiles and giant spiders."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me those make home in the sewers?"

"I'm not sure. The crocodiles, maybe."

"Are you _trying_ to get us killed, girl?"

Iorveth, fed up with their perpetual bickering, raised his voice. "Shut. _Up_."

There was a long moment of quiet.

Iorveth slowed his breaths.

And cursed his luck.

"Is anyone hurt?" The little elf asked after some time.

"It would be miracle if one of us was _not_ scratched up," Nurov answered.

"Alright." There were some grunts and splashes and then someone kicked his boot. "Gather close to me."

"Why?" Nurov drawled.

"I'm going to heal us."

Well. That was among the first of this world's _good_ surprises.

With great effort, Iorveth heaved himself towards her voice, ignoring the many stings of foul water against open wounds. He felt her hand brace his knee and he stilled.

He had only ever experienced healing magic once, when it was absolutely dire, for it was a long and tedious process, and mages versed in healing magic were few and far in between. Iorveth could recall nearly none of it, only to have woken with the disfiguring scar he wore to this day. In this moment, he really did not know what to expect.

It began as a faint glow, pulsing and alive, illuminating the chamber and the elf's focused expression. Warmth bled from her hands, increasing in pressure as it branched up his leg until it felt like hot lead forcing its way through his veins, setting ablaze each and every fresh cut and scrape, scalding at fading bruises he'd forgotten, even searing his lungs and throat. It was brutal and hellish, and just as Iorveth felt he'd had enough…it became _vigor_. A cool, soothing rush of power that made the pain worthwhile, that lightened his limbs and settled his tension. He felt entirely renewed, even breathing seemed easier.

It was a great loss to feel it fade away; Iorveth questioned how the healers of this world did not drive their patients mad. He was so caught up in the sour withdrawal in fact, that he did not startle when flickering torchlight filled the room.

"This one advises you eat some garlic bread to stave off the ataxia."

The little elf sprang to her feet with a shriek. "Bahva!"

Iorveth had seen the cats in the square. They were multifarious, varying in size and color and pattern. This one was tall, with silver fur decorated with hollow black spots and crisscrossing scars. Rags, twine, and dagger hilts stuck out from crescentiform pockets on her plain clothes, and the hand— _paw?_ —that held the torch lacked a finger. She looked more pirate than any of the lunatics above. She turned her gaze to Nurov's dumbfounded face and scowled.

"It is rude to stare," the cat spat. "Your parents never taught you manners?"

The little elf sputtered and fumbled over apologies on their behalf, trying haphazardly to introduce them well until Bahva waved her down with a ' _this one knows it all_.'

"Oh. Sonni found you?"

"She did. But this one had her turn back and warn you. Where is the courier now?"

"Safe, I hope. She escaped just as the brutes caught up to us."

The khajiit nodded. "Moonlight guide her steps. It is good she is close to the water. The pirates set the Rings ablaze…everything beyond the First is hot ash. This one gathered who she could and escaped into the sewers."

"W-what? Why would they—" Rif sucked in a breath. " _Nana?_ "

"Your grandmother is safe. She waits just a bit ahead. Bahva came alone to see who was unfortunate enough to become skeever-feed."

" _You_ sent the rats this way?" Iorveth asked, although it came out more of an accusation.

"Not Bahva. The skeevers came from _that_ tunnel," she pointed a clawed finger to an opposite passageway. "It is the quickest way to the port, but we cannot go that way. The Refuge has been taken by the pirates. Their commotion disturbed the rats."

"I don't understand these pirates." said Nurov, amidst wringing water from his shirt. "They plan a conquest of a city and spurn its criminals?"

Bahva responded with a blank look before turning into the tunnel behind her. "Come. The only way to your ship is the long way. We should not waste time."

They fell in step behind her, clothes dripping, and Iorveth walked beside his brother, because for once, he felt uncomfortable bringing up the rear.

"To answer your question, refugee, what sets these pirates apart is their captain," Bahva stated, the hiss of her voice echoing off the surrounding stone in an unsettling way. "Fortunata, this one has heard of her, as she calls herself the 'Pirate Queen.' This one thinks it is a worthless title, but maybe it is fitting…Fortunata has the hunger and jealousy of a queen anyway. She is not the first to covet this harbor-city since Varen's rebellion, but she is the first to act on such whims. What she desires, she controls. The outlaws are…unpredictable. This one thinks the pirate queen must see them as a threat to her careful plan."

The light of the torch was dying by the time the cat finished speaking, but they did not have to fear for the dark again. A small huddle of people clogged the tunnel ahead: Bahva's rescues. They wore weary expressions and their relieved whispers echoed around them, and while they were exclusively human, not one pair of eyes flicked up to his ears or narrowed with a sneer. Just as to the crowd above ground, he was only another victim of the disorder; even Nurov stiffened with the unfamiliarity of it, though Iorveth quickly learned he was upset for another reason.

"She's _human_!" Nurov hissed in his ear. Iorveth followed his brother's glare to the little elf, who was tucked tightly in an old woman's arms. Her grandmother? It wasn't possible. Round-eared and ancient, burdened by her hunched back and sagging skin, yet Rif cried quiet tears of joy for her all the same. She wiped the soot off the crone's wrinkled face, only stopping to move her hands in strange frantic motions that the old woman seemed to imitate.

They were speaking this way, he realized.

Bahva did not stand to let the reunions last, and urged them onwards, leading the way with the other torchbearers. Nurov hurried ahead, dismantling her past words, asking questions of coast politics, of this Varen, of wars. They were questions _he_ should have been asking, questions Filavandrel and Francesca would want asked in their absence. Iorveth thanked his brother in thought for his prudence…and his focus, since Iorveth only half listened. Something drew him like a trance to their _hands_ , those of the elf and her grandmother-not-by-blood, something loud, yet distant. A roar, a buzz, a hum, as he tried to decipher their gestures.

A peculiar feeling prickled his skin, stood his neck hairs on end. There was something happening here, something Iorveth did not understand. How could no one else feel that? The others walked on obliviously, unaffected, all while his ears rang and the pressure condensed and expanded—

And then _it_ snapped. Silence swallowed the tunnel whole. Rif turned her head to him with wide eyes. Had she done this?

"My nan says…" The elf's voice wavered, and she looked to her grandmother for reassurance, as if she did not believe the words that would come out of her mouth. "She says she has waited for you. Your coming was foretold."

—

"AGAIN!" Toruviel heard Sigha cry, and another torrent of flaming arrows struck at the enemies' feet. They stumbled back, towards the gate, but the grey elf's wall of fire held them from fleeing into the city. Their numbers were great as of now; reinforcement would be too much to handle.

She struggled at the knot between her fingers, the salt-weathered rope refusing to be coaxed into something useful. She heard her brother urging her from above, and the grey elf's strained warning. _I cannot hold much longer!_ Toruviel cursed the ties, yanking them all loose from Vesham's body. A single noose would have to do. She secured the knot, tying it twice, thrice, once more for good measure. A wave of her hand and Vesham's body scaled the hull, rope digging into his stomach for all twenty feet of it. _I'll apologize for the bruises tomorrow_.

A ball of flame slammed into the ship, narrowly missing her head. No time for fear.

Toruviel readied her knives; she had two left, the others buried in the backs of the unsuspecting.

The pirates advanced, the flames extinguished by a crimson-robed man with ice spilling from his staff. The grey elf, in retreat disarmed a few before stumbling where the sea wall met the dock wood. An Aen Seidhe arrow saved her from the strike of a sword, and one of Toruviel's own blades granted her time to scurry to the ship.

"Up!" she commanded to the elf. "Go on, climb!" Those black eyes blinked once before she leapt onto the ladder. The arrows kept falling, but hardly any met their mark anymore, frozen midair by the mage's frost, and still more pirates flooded through the gate, reinforcements come calling.

Toruviel should climb then, she knew. Cut the rope and raise the sails, leave this place behind for good. The anchor had already been raised. Their escape would take but a moment. _But…?_ She thought of Iorveth and Nurov. The brave little elf who helped them. _Sacrifices must be made for the greater good_ , she heard Enid's voice say.

"No!" she spoke aloud. It was not Enid's voice. It was not anyone's voice but her own, born of fear and cowardice. No time for fear.

They were many and she was one. They had led her friend away, had they not? Alive and unharmed, the last she saw. Perhaps she could just turn herself in, devise a plan as they led her to her prison.

By Nietha's grace only, she did not have to deliberate very long.

Deadly steel sprouted from the mage's throat, but he was just the first. The auspice. The men around him fell, almost in unison, to the ground. Were they dead? Asleep? She did not know this, only that some great power had caused it. Her elves' arrows ceased, and Toruviel stepped forward. The road was paved for her now, was it not?

Then Nurov's ivory-kissed head appeared, followed by the rest of him, as if he stepped out from behind some invisible barrier. He was not alone. Iorveth, Rif, an old woman dressed in grey carrying her own staff of gleaming silver and glass.

Iorveth rushed her, relief illuminating his face. She too, allowed a weight to roll off her shoulders.

"You are safe," she exclaimed. That much was obvious, but in her gratitude, more eloquent words failed her.

"Yes, but we must go now." Nurov was already halfway up the ladder, Rif and the old woman lingering just behind. When Iorveth spoke again, it was with such certainty she had not heard from him in a long time. "They come, too."

A selfless elf and a powerful mage. Toruviel did not see the harm. She looked her brother in the eye and nodded. "They come, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KM: In case anyone is a stickler for elder scrolls lore, I obviously did not stick to canon here. Just didn't feel like the original Anvil coup created enough chaos lol.
> 
> SB: Nurov is a lil shit aint he


End file.
